Krenzik's War Part 7
by TheManipulator
Summary: Written with ViperChickKaliyla. It's Colonial Day, a time to celebrate and a time to make deals. Jay and Diana both must face the possibility that they may have bargained with the Devil.


Title: Krenzik's War-Part 7

Author: Manipulator w/ ViperChickKaliyla

Word count: 17,911

Rating: M

Spoilers: "Hand of God," "Colonial Day," "Black Market"

Disclaimer: BSG is property of NBC/Universal

Notes: This story follows "Krenzik's War" parts 1-6, and you should read those first before delving into this installment. The story will switch perspectives, from Krenzik's to Diana's view of the same scene. These perspective shifts are denoted with a double line break. I encourage readers to hop over to Hangar Deck 5 or Ragnar Anchorage to check out VCK's "Diana's Tale."

The last time we all manned our stations, living for the chime of the intercom, my life passed before my eyes every 33 minutes. Now, we sat in orbit above a desolate moon that, as far as we, and the Cylons, were concerned, was the most important place in the universe.

Far below, vipers, dropped from Colonial Movers' freight cars, sped toward an enemy mining station. Their success or failure decided our fate. If we didn't take the moon, then humanity would go out with a whimper. Our ships would run out of gas, and eventually, a basestar would come, and wipe us all out. Beyond the dead colonies, there would be no indication we ever existed, save for those who destroyed us.

Now, if we won, we could run for years, maybe even until we reached Earth. The choices of fates were either oblivion or uncertainty.

Briar was on the aft observation deck, with a pair of binoculars, trying to see anything he could, from the surface, which wouldn't be much, if anything. He was looking for a small poof, which would signify the station's explosion.

So far, the plan was working, otherwise you wouldn't be reading this. The Cylon raiders took the bait, and came after us, the helpless civvies, and more vipers cut them down. As we waited in silence, our FTL spun up, just in case, I thought about what Sharon Valerii had told me, on Galactica's deck. The enemy fighter on jack stands was alive. Those things, single-minded in their purpose, their willingness to dive into Galactica's cannons, and annihilate us without mercy were alive. Something with a heartbeat, that could feel pain, gave it without a second thought.

The intercom chimed, and, finally we had something to do, other than glance sideways at one another and ponder our fates. Jeffers gave the word.

"The Cylon base is destroyed. Repeat: The Cylon base is destroyed."

Cheers, including mine, erupted throughout the engine room, from down below. The Cylons finally lost, for a change. Sure, Galactica pulled this off by catching them with their pants down, leaving a mining station sparsely defended in a show of complacent arrogance, but they found out they had to look over their collective shoulder, from now on. The fleet was running, but not running scared. If the reports were true, there was enough fuel to run for years.

We all piled back, behind the machine shop, around the still. Caff poured the shots, from the steel tank, with its twisting cat's cradle of copper tubing and and hoses, as we stood in a circle. All our coffee mugs, bottoms of sawed down plastic bottles, juice glasses, were raised.

"Okay," Caff said, moving to the center of us, moving so he made eye contact with everyone, at least for a second. "I told ya, I'm not worth a frak for speeches or fancy toasts. So who's gonna make it, people?"

Eyes slid toward me. I met Marty's gaze first.

"Go for it, Jay. You bullshit your way in to see the President."

Toby's eyes rolled, and I could see a quiet consternation in Nick, Ed, and Mangan. Getting our pictures with Laura Roslin, over the wireless, and in a couple of new print magazines floating around helped us out with the name recognition, but I got the feeling that some thought I was serving my own interests more than everyone else's. Especially Nick. No one got a bigger kick in seeing my picture up on the bulletin board, whispering in Diana's ear than him. After the first day or so, emphatic ribbing takes on a new rancorous flavor. I was getting close to just telling him to knock off the passive-aggressive shit. Mercifully, we were kept apart, and usually busy, hustling our booze, and picking up new deals for our expertise.

I thought about Nick shooting his mouth off, the day before.

"Hey, look at Krenzik," he had said. "Got a bottle of high-cubit booze off Bertrand, went to his office, for a little visit, and now he's trying to get some of that Cabinet pussy!"

Next to the "Colonial Review" clipping, which had shots of Caff shaking Roslin's hand, and our group shot, behind her desk, a rag called "Scuttlebutt" had a big picture of me whispering into Diana's ear. The first tabloid of this new era read and looked like it was produced by embittered net geeks who were desperate for any kind of attention. They got it too. Diana's split second of confusion in the shot was perfect fodder for all sorts of rumors that they were more than happy to expound on. Nick had yet to let it go. Since he liked hearing himself talk so much, I gave him the chance.

"Hey, Nicky," I told him, in our circle, then. He hated being called Nicky, and he raised an eyebrow, when he looked up. "You got a real way with words. Why don't you?"

I raised my cup, and his face flushed. I knew he was all mouth because he never had the stones to talk up to anybody but Caffrey. He just hung his head and shut his mouth when Jeffers was around, then would bellyache around us, later. Deep down, he was afraid to rock the boat, and resented those who weren't.

He cleared his throat, and the focus shifted easily from me to him.

"Well, out with it," Mangan grunted. "This isn't wine here. It don't get any better with age."

"Alright man," Nick responded, raising his juice cup. "To kickin' Cylon ass!"

"To kicking Cylon ass," we all shouted in unison.

The Lady's home brew burned going down, as usual, leaving a track of heat down to my stomach. Nick grimaced, shuddering after finishing his off.

"See," I told him. "You can do that public speaking thing after all."

His meaty face contorted into a scowl as he left the shop.

"Frak off, Krenzik."

I shook my head, before pouring myself one more from the spout, and the rest of the guys laughed or hooted in his direction.

Ed Coursen sidled up to me, laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Look, man, don't sweat him," he said, breath already thick with our borderline solvent liquor. "Some guys don't know how to take you."

How were they supposed to take me? If I hadn't mentioned the still, who would have? Caffrey would never have, since he towed the line. He was a great foreman, but he worked strictly inside the boundaries set. Who even thought of actually going to the President, get them what they needed? I felt sometimes that some of the gang down below felt I owed them something. I got my hands dirty like everyone else.

The intercom chimed. Jeffers stated I was to report to CIC.

CIC stood for, on New Castle freighters, for Command Information Center. On Galactica, command was replaced with combat. I never saw the point of such a grandiose name, for what amounted to our cockpit. I guess the company wanted to sound cool. Before the bombs dropped, I sometimes wondered if we'd start calling the shuttles that we loaded and unloaded on our runs would suddenly be referred to as vipers. There was enough room for Stengler and Jeffers to sit in the center of a large "U" of a console, with Moore at her nav and DRADIS consoles to the far left, and Mitchell, in front of the comm station at the far right. Everybody Down Below thought it was a big deal to be called up here. While the view out the main port beat the aft observation deck it wasn't worth hunching over in here for it, with Milt Jeffers looking at a printout as if the paper were made out of shit.

"Looks like you have a little detail over at the luxury liner, Krenzik. Jasper Bertrand wants you to…." Jeffers raised an eyebrow at the next line. "Fix his air conditioning."

He looked up at me, brow creased. "What would he need you for? They have a full maintenance crew over there."

I shrugged. It looks like Nick wasn't the only one who didn't "know how to take me."

"Maybe he just likes my taste in whiskey, Mr. Jeffers." I cracked a smile, which he read correctly as me being a smartass.

"Well, we need you--and everybody else around here, too. He doesn't need to use you for his personal repairman. You belong to this ship's crew, you understand?"

Now, what was he getting at? I didn't like the sudden "Let's bust Krenzik's balls" festival, which started upon returning from Colonial One, then ending up in print.

I did a poor job of hiding what I thought, judging from the way color rushed back into his face.

"Do you have a problem, Krenzik?"

I wondered what the worst he could do was, since there was no personnel department to deal with, any longer, but, I noticed the Captain look over his shoulder, and decided to leave it be.

"No, sir, Mr. Jeffers. I just want to know when my shuttle gets here. I want to get back on the job here, ASAP, sir."

I made no attempt to put on a happy face, this time. If he had something to say, I just wanted him to say it. But, this was Milt Jeffers. I wasn't high enough on the food chain for genuine frankness, it seemed. I found I had about an hour, so I went back, Down Below, and rounded up my tool chest.

I sat in Bertrand's office, in one of those overly comfy leather chairs, as he rocked back in his seat, behind the huge, ornate desk.

"We're close to accomplishing our goals," he said, the tense way he steepled his fingers before him not matching the happiness those words should have conveyed. "I've just been named the Quorum rep for Libron. Tom Zarek, however, hasn't locked it up, but he appears to be the man for Sagittaron. Despite all my efforts, he's shamelessly cuddling up to the Geminese. Giving them water, just about anything he can. Geminon represents a significant portion of our fleet's population."

I understood that this wasn't good news, but I failed to see why it was ruining his mood, or somehow was a monkeywrench in his plans. Everything he was doing revolved around countering Zarek to begin with.

"How does this derail what we're doing," I asked him. I was surprised at the assertiveness in my tone. For a moment, I felt like I belonged in that overstuffed chair, talking over things of lofty importance, rather than on the Lady, getting my chops busted by Jeffers, and guys like Nick.

"Acts of humanity, which are ridiculous, and just means that Zarek will need to tank the Astral Queen off Galactica more often, gain favor across the board. The reason he hasn't run away with it, is that I've been getting face time with the smaller vessels, networking people, and getting aid to ships like that liner out of Picon, with all the orphans. Plus…"

He summoned a grin then, pointing an approving finger at me.

"What you did on Colonial One was simply amazing. I knew you were a good man, Krenzik, but that was surprising, even to me."

I saw the clipped printouts and the copy of "Scuttlebutt" tacked up on the bulletin board, in our breakroom. On some level, I suppose it was. Colonial One's impending engine failure did that, more than anything.

"Hey, Caff did all the talking, Mr.--Councilman, I just--"

Bertrand raised his hand to silence me, shaking his head, as if I told him I had been born with three legs.

"You got his foot in the door. You were the one that set him in front of President Roslin. Do you realize how much you helped her, and me? Roslin is now back in touch with the common voter, like never before. Zarek was getting pretty good at making himself over as a…" his upper lip curled in a sneer, and his eyes narrowed. "…man of the people."

He rose, went to the wet bar, and continued, as he poured us both shots of Old Geminon. I didn't have to look to know that mine would be neat.

"Now, I anticipate our buddy Tom will probably move to open elections for a Vice President. He has some definite support, but I've been making moves, and you, and a lot of others have done their part to make it happen."

He sat against the edge of his desk, and handed my glass to me.

"He can't just sit back now. The problem is, there isn't anyone else, at this time that would make a solid choice for Roslin to back as VP. The only name batted around, of any consequence, is Wallace Grey."

I sipped, then asked: "Who?"

"My point exactly, Krenzik. But, I have a plan. You see, I've helped many get what they needed when Roslin and Galactica couldn't, or wouldn't soon enough. I'm solidifying a deal that will make me more than just the voice of Libron in the council. And, this will get you, and your crew on track to sustain yourselves, and do a lot of solid business."

My crew? It was Stengler's freighter, and I was just a mechanic. I knew that my skills had put me, and other techies on a loftier perch, but why was he acting like I ran the Lady? I sensed I was being cajoled into an ego massage. When that usually happened, I was either being set up for a mighty fall, or being jerked around. Sometimes a mix of both.

"What kind of deal?"

He extended his glass, a gesture for me to do the same.

"You'll find out on Colonial Day. Things are going to be moving very fast. I need all my guys on deck, more than ever. You, and your guys have suites booked on Cloud Nine, and some other surprises in store. All we be told, then. To the future, Krenzik."

Our fine crystal glasses clinked, and I finished my drink in one swallow, as did he.

"To the future," I repeated, only because it was obvious that the past wasn't much to look at. More than ever, I felt herded into a stall.

The bedsheet was draped around me, and I sat, hands in my lap, waiting for the buzz of the clippers to reach my head. Marty was the only one, other than Caff, who could cut hair. After seeing that he could do a reasonable job on Toby and Mangan, I decided to give him a shot. Everyone else was either waiting in line, behind me, or getting dressed.

Surprisingly, Stengler gave us all the night off. The officers went down during the day, and saw, of all people, Dr. Gaius Baltar elected Vice President. Over the wireless, in the days since my meeting with Bertrand, everyone in Roslin's cabinet gave a beaming endorsement for the Doctor. I fought the urge to tell the gang to shut up when Diana spoke her piece. She basically repeated everything said by the others, nearly drowned out by yet another salvo of catcalls sent my way.

The uniformity of all the beaming accolades for Baltar was strange. This guy had no political experience, never even held an administrative position in academia. The best thing about him was that he was not Tom Zarek. I thought about all of us who Bertrand networked together, got as self-sufficient as possible, for this moment. Baltar won by one council vote--Roslin's tiebreaker. Mission accomplished. I wondered what Councilman Bertrand had in store next. He wasn't the kind of person to sit back and let things play out. Two creatures had to constantly move and feed, or die: sharks, and Jasper Bertrand. The steady stream of real liquor, fruit, and real meat, although not in large amounts, could not have come from Bertrand's own stash, not all of it. Someone was feeding him, so he, in turn, could spread that good cheer around. Given the unusual air of mystery surrounding the festivities, this evening, I had a feeling we were going to find out how far his pipeline extended.

Marty raked the clippers along the back of my head. This was pretty simple fade. Take two inches off the sides, one inch off the top. Nick sat on his bunk, next in line. He was smiling really big, which was a sign he thought he had something witty to say.

"Hey, Marty," he shouted over the buzzing. "Why don'tcha shave a big dick into his head, so everybody knows what they're dealing with!"

Marty shrugged. "If I do that, man, then what'll stop me from doin' it to you?"

Before he could respond, I shifted my eyes toward Nick, and grinned, myself.

"If you gotta, Marty, just use the one he's got in mouth all night as a model."

Toby burst out laughing, in one of the shower stalls, as Nick rose, blushing in light of obviously losing face. Marty had to switch off the clippers, just so he could get his guffaws out of the way.

"Yeah, funny, Krenzik. Why…why don't we just use the one Bertrand sticks up your ass."

If he had come up with that a little quicker, maybe it would have been some sort of a recovery. His moment was gone, so he just grabbed his shaving kit, and rumbled his cinderblock body toward the showers.

"He's just a hater," Marty told me. I didn't turn around, but he sounded like he'd laughed to the point of tears.

I jumped in the shower, scrubbing down with a scented bar of soap. We'd gotten some travel-size bars off a run Caff and Ed made to a passenger liner, to fix their water recycler unit, along with ten cartons of smokes, ripped from their cigarette machine. The smell was rich and spicy. I could have been showering at my apartment, planetside in Highchurch, or in a hotel in port, just like now. Ready to go out, ready to party. Before the bombs dropped, though, I wouldn't know that I still may never find this soap again, ever. I wouldn't be looking forward, so much, to dressing up, going out, anywhere, because this tub, and all the others who paid us to keep them going, or for a case of hooch, were all I ever saw, and the only sky I glimpsed was the endless, cold black that engulfed us.

I had some jeans and t-shirts packed away, but only one good suit, for those nights in port, when we could go out and blow off some steam. The night clubs in Messina, on Picon, or the joints in the bohemian district of Caprica City were favorite haunts. I'd don this black suit, with this same burgundy dress shirt, usually open-collared, and hit the town. It was usually Toby and Ed who went along, with Nick sometimes in tow. I was losing my taste for clubbing, though. Everybody just went through the motions, as though the places we hit were full of people acting out the memory of what it was like for men and women to talk to each another. Caff and Mangan usually went their own way, sometimes together, sometimes separately. I know our Foreman liked to go to museums sometimes, or just relax in the silence of a university library.

I ran a lint brush over my suit, shined up my black dress shoes with lug soles. My ensemble was probably a little too casual for the venue, but it was all I had. I saw Mangan saunter by, digging dirt from his fingernails, wearing a red golf shirt and khakis, and didn't feel too bad.

By the time I buttoned up, tucked my shirt in, smoothed my closely cropped hair with some gel, and donned my jacket, the intercom chimed that our shuttle had arrived. Briar and his guys in the cargo hold were going too. This would be an interesting raptor ride, for sure. I took one last look in the mirror, checking my teeth.

Caffrey tapped me on the shoulder. He was looking money in charcoal dress pants and a black turtleneck, underneath a houndstooth blazer.

"Come on man, it's party time," he said, looking almost as happy as he did after speaking to the President.

I could never afford a trip to the great floating party town that was Cloud Nine, or any ship like it. Beneath it's great dome was an immense park with a climate-controlled park, with a computer-generated sky overhead. Underneath, there were some bars, clubs, and a high-end, legally sanctioned brothel. We had arrived, just as the last orange rays of the fake sunset dappled the perfectly manicured trees and lawns. The heavyweights, such as the military and the government, would celebrate in the ornate main ballroom. I saw them file in, men in military dress grays, or finely tailored suits. The women wore all manner of glamorous finery, white gloves, gowns of every color, ranging from virtuous to saucy. The silks and other fabrics adorning them shined in the last of the virtual sun. I craned my neck a little, going past, hoping to catch a glimpse of Diana Thalyka. I wondered what she would wear to such an occasion. Then again, with only a couple suits, and one pair of stockings, she probably got whatever she could borrow. I tried to imagine what colors would best flatter her, but realized that I didn't have a knack for clothing design, and let it drop from my mind.

Marty, in a leather sport coat, that he got in trade for a case of our booze, a black t-shirt, and brown corduroys, stooped down quickly, and pulled up a couple blades of grass.

"Look man," he said, holding it before my eyes, as if he had picked up a gold nugget. "Real grass! You remember the last time you saw this?"

I did, and knew that this genetically engineered stuff, perfectly green, might be all I would ever see again. Ruining his mood didn't feel right, so I laughed.

"Come on man. You keep ripping hunks out of the ground, security will chuck you right outta here."

After going through a metal detector, and, thankfully all of us coming through without a hitch, Caffrey told a marine where we were supposed to be, and we were led to a secondary ball room, through double doors. The ornate banquet hall's ceilings must have been twenty meters high. I fought the urge, but caved, joining everyone else gawking upward. Except for the Lady's engine room, I didn't know what it was like to be in such a sprawling, richly decorated room. Even Bertrand's office didn't match this, with the inlaid parquet floor, golden drapes, and the fine furniture we would be sitting in.

Caffrey found us a table, and we eased into our chairs, in front of heavy, clear glass tableware, with white cloth napkins folded atop each plate. Other maintenance crews had filed in already, and were seated. I recognized some of the men and women from the luxury liner, Colonial Movers, and the fleet's refinery ship, in addition to smaller groups, presumably from vessels we hadn't met yet. In front of all, was a podium, with the Colonial seal embossed in the wood, on a small riser.

A young guy, around Marty's age, came by, with a coffee pot, I nodded for him to fill my cup, asked him what was on the menu.

"Grilled chicken in a lemon and pepper marinade," he said, crisply. He had obviously rehearsed this, and repeated it several times, already. "With rice pilaf and mixed vegetables."

This wasn't a spread generally worthy of such a decadent venue, but this was better than even the best stuff we could trade for, which was leaps and bounds ahead of the general rations that came every couple weeks, courtesy of Colonial One.

I thanked him, sipped my coffee. Everybody else got a cup, even Bobby Fitch and Ed. Neither were big java drinkers. Since it was free, thought, they felt compelled to snap up all they could, like the rest of us. I made a note to snap up any bars of soap I ran across in the men's room.

Briar looked around, nodding approvingly.

"I could get used to this," he said, grinning.

Mangan snorted. "Not if you want disappointed. We'll see this once year, or until Mr. Councilman gets the axe."

Just then, as if Mangan invoked the man's name, Jasper Bertrand--Councilman Jasper Bertrand--strode proudly through the double doors, waving regally to us. The room swelled with applause as he took the podium. He smiled warmly, beaming at the adulation.

"Thank you! Thank you all! We won the first important victory of this new era. We did it, thanks to each and every one of you, in this room! You have brought self-sufficiency and cooperation to each and every ship in this fleet. Give yourselves a round of applause."

We did, too. Afterward, he continued.

"I'll keep this brief, as I'm sure all of you want to enjoy the great spread the chefs at Cloud Nine have prepared for us. We have a lot of work to do, but, like you, I face every day, ready to get my hands dirty, ready to face every challenge head on. We have secured a Vice President the Colonies can be proud of, and set the stage for building a new, great society to inhabit our eventual home, on Earth. Now, enjoy yourselves, as there's an open bar afterward, because you've earned it. So say we all!"

"So say we all," we repeated, our conviction echoing off the walls. I wondered how much impact we really had in Baltar's election. I still wondered who was feeding Bertrand the steady flow of high-cubit goods, and what was in store now that his stage was set. Soon after, our promised grilled chicken was laid before us. The patties were preformed, but the waiter wasn't kidding about the marinade. It was lemon pepper, and it was very good. The chicken was also quite juicy for the processed stuff.

The next time our waiter returned, he asked us for our attention, after pouring us more water and coffee.

"Gentlemen, Councilman Bertrand has requested that all of you join him in the sitting room," he said, nodding toward a door at the back of the hall. "After you're done, just simply grab yourselves a drink, and head back."

Caffrey nodded in approval, to us. "Well, looks like we get to rub shoulders a little more with the big dogs.

Mangan shrugged. "Maybe we'll end up in Scuttlebutt?" His eyes landed on me, smirking as he said it. Everybody else laughed, with Nick braying a little too hard.

I really wanted to find out what the frak Nick Sorg's problem was. We had a long road ahead of us, and I was sure I would find out soon enough.

Caff made a point that we all go into the sitting room together, make a show of unity. I strolled in with the rest, a gin and tonic in my hand. It was just house gin, but certain allowances, obviously, had to be made. Some of the guys just grabbed a draft beer. That was fine, but who knew when we'd find good liquor again? Even the odd bottle we snapped up was mostly ambrosia, or middle-of-the-road bourbon.

Behind a giant, circular table, was a heavyset black man in the finest suit I had seen anyone wear in this fleet. His fingers were adorned with gold rings. Dark eyes, deeply set beneath the smooth dome of his head, gave every indication that lots of things were going on behind them. Bertrand sat to his right, and got up, beckoning us to take our seats.

His name was Phelan, he told us, as he opened a polished metal humidor, lined with teak, then lit up a cigar from it. He passed the box to Caffrey, who took one, and we all followed suit. I looked at the band, and he must have seen the surprise in my face.

"Those are Apollonians. The finest cigar in the Twelve Colonies," he said. His voice was soft, but radiated authority, demanded respect with every syllable.

I nodded approvingly. He passed a cutter around, so we could begin lighting up. By the time he began, a heavy, fragrant cloud of smoke hung in the air.

"The Councilman tells me you have a still. You've been doing a good job in trade, in large part, because of it."

We all looked to Caff, and he nodded.

"That's right. We've landed some goods along way, thanks to our home brew. If it wasn't for that, we'd probably just be on government rations."

Phelan nodded himself, slowly, thoughtfully.

"What if I told you," he said. Then his eyes fell on each and every one of us. "Each and every one of you, that you have just scraped the tip of the iceberg?"

Caff rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed.

"How do you mean?"

"Alcohol is part of the new money. Real liquor is hard to come by. It's a simple fact. Most people can't afford it, now. Your… home brew, as you call it, is much more accessible."

Most people couldn't afford real liquor? He spoke as if he knew about this market. Given his expensive tastes, manifested on his fingers, and in the threads of his clothing, it seemed he had a knack for "getting things done," as Bertrand liked to put it. I could see that Bertrand had got us to the table, to make a deal. I fought the urge to jump in, and let Caff roll with it.

"That's true, but we can't roll out that much. It's really a Mom and Pop operation--"

Phelan raised a meaty hand for silence. His rings twinkled in the light.

"It won't be soon. The councilman pointed me to you, because you have growth potential. I can supply you with all the equipment you need to produce twice what you put out in a day, now. I want your business, and I'm willing to make you a very fair offer for it."

Leather creaked as we all shifted in our seats. If he wanted to throw new, larger drums, and more copper tubing, etc. at us, he must have had the power to make a lot of things happen. I wondered what his deal was. There couldn't be very many people who could take a shot at this kind of move. The only other one was sitting next to him, and sat on the Quorum of Twelve. I noticed the usually verbose Jasper Bertrand was unusually quiet here, treating this Phelan with a definite respect, letting him run the meeting. I prayed Caff was thinking some of the same things I was. Judging from the neutral mask Mangan's features held, and the seeming guileless anticipation that radiated from everyone else around me, I wasn't so sure.

Our foreman nodded. "Go on."

"Bertrand tells me that you're interested in arming yourselves. One of your guys got his head busted open on a job a while back, by some pig who thought he was a Cylon. You get loads in periodically. Somebody could try and jack you. I can supply sidearms, maybe some assault rifles, and ammunition."

Caff was playing it cool, almost too cool.

"Where are we going to practice with any new guns," I interjected. "Most of us are country boys out of Libron. Most of us never served in the Fleet, and don't know much beyond a hunting rifle."

Phelan nodded, took a puff of his cigar.

"Mobile firing range. It's not the same thing the military uses, but I can send over the materials so you can build it yourselves. You boys are good with tools, I hear."

"Okay," Caff said. "Now, you're willing to give us all guns, for booze. What else? This is an operation that takes a lot of time, and some effort to run. Weapons are great, but that's a one-shot deal, for a long-term deal on our part.."

Phelan's eyes seemed to smile, in direct opposition to the rest of his face. The Councilman finally deviated from his trend of nodding in approval.

"You have what Phelan is looking for. The Lady of Libron II is a short range vessel, which keeps you out out of the minds, generally, of the government, and Galactica, since, beyond your manpower, you don't look like you have that much to offer. What you do have, is unique to your vessel's class. Not too many ships in the fleet have your storage capacity, designed to move as much as possible in one to three weeks in space."

What did it matter if we were of interest to the government and the military, or not? We weren't doing anything illegal? I had a feeling we were about to, though. I wanted to have a sit down, and talk this over with the rest of the gang, even before I'd heard the rest.

"We need to stage various shipments," Phelan interjected. "We need a place out of the way, where the fleet isn't looking. Someplace safe.

We… This was big, obviously. I was praying Caff would tell him we needed a day or two to talk it over. Hell, we needed to ask Stengler. I had a feeling he wouldn't be a problem, though. He, and the rest of the flight crew, enjoyed the stuff that rolled in, so far. Arming ourselves was something had a feeling he would like, ever since I kissed that lead pipe on the Manzingo. But this reminded me of the moment I shook hands with Bertrand for the first time. We were selling our souls again, I thought. If this guy could off-handedly say he could get us a mobile firing range, and assault rifles, there was great power squeezed into that fine suit.

"In addition," Phelan continued. "I can get you fine tobacco, more liquor, and food that makes the rations you've traded for look like swill. You will find a lot of goods others cannot hope to dream of will be at your fingertips. I know what I'm asking. I'm willing to pay for it, handsomely."

I knew what he was asking, too. We would be dependent on him, now. He hadn't mentioned brokering our services, yet. I hoped that didn't come next.

Bertrand nodded, emphatically, like he always did, when he saw a great deal about to come true. I knew then, how he was able to get everything those orphans, and their teacher, Elizabeth, needed, so quickly, how all the sparsely supplied vessels were kept afloat before Roslin could get there to help out. He bought support the same way Zarek did, just a little less overtly. I wondered who was truly bought, though. Phelan's presence simply dwarfed him, in this room. That was something I thought I'd never see.

Everyone else around me either didn't see this, or just didn't care. Wasn't it fifteen minutes ago, that Bertrand was a guy who just brought regular people together in trade? Now he was finding places to stash mystery crates for guys with automatic weapons. Everything would change, irreversibly, and quickly. I hoped Caff would let us sleep on it. My heart sank when he gave us a cursory glance, then nodded.

"You have a deal, Phelan. Our Captain gives us a free hand in our deals. He knows a good thing when he sees it."

He and Phelan shook hands. I could see Marty, Toby, and the rest smiling. Even Mangan seemed happier. After all, why not? We had plenty of smokes now, and great food, among other things, coming our way. All we had to do was hide a few boxes, and churn out hooch.

Bertrand finally spoke. I was surprised he didn't ask Phelan's permission to speak.

"This is fantastic, gentlemen. Really fantastic. Now, as a sort of down-payment for your services, Mr. Phelan booked your suites, and, a night with some of the most beautiful women in this fleet, from his brothels, right here on Cloud Nine."

This was getting more shocking by the moment. I almost expected him to say Phelan owned the Galactica, and leased it out to William Adama. How could this guy take over a corporate brothel with a full staff in place already? I imagined it was a downpayment in blood. Phelan's eyes met mine, as I did my best to look as happy as everyone else. My blood chilled a little when, he winked at me, before getting up to leave.

"If you gentlemen would excuse me," he said. I have other business to attend to. Enjoy your evening, and, over the next few days, you will receive new equipment for the still, and the other items we discussed tonight."

He shook all of our hands, pumping once, each, before easing out, a ribbon of cigar smoke trailing out with him. Chatter filled the room, the excitement over our impending night of sensual candy was front and center in everyone's minds.

Bertrand excused himself, patting us on our backs, shaking hands in that politically advantageous manner, before handing Caff a stack of keycards, for our accommodations, and company, he left, thanking us again for helping him start molding his brave new era for humanity.

Caffrey passed out the keycards. When he came to me, I leaned in.

"Caff, we really shoulda talked about this first. I mean, who is this--"

"Not now, Jay."

"But--"

"I said this isn't the time, Krenzik. Now take your damn key."

That was it. When was the time? I doubted then, there would ever be. Caff couldn't buy this whole thing. I knew he was no angel, but this was heavy duty. Come what may, we would never be the same.

We filed out of the ballroom. Down the path, I could hear the band playing, at the party, where all the political heavyweights, and the military danced the night away. The rest of the gang headed toward the escalators, to the underside, where our suites, and the finest women money could buy awaited. I looked up at the computer-generated night, hands in pockets, feeling the keycard to our VIP suites. We had every reason to celebrate. We all had gas, Bertrand won, and we had a great distribution deal, opening new doors, and getting us more than we dreamed could be had in this village floating in space.

Toby looked back, called after me.

"Hey, Krenzik! Booty call's this way!"

I waved back.

"I'll be along in a while, man. I'm gonna clear my head."

I needed a walk, so I sauntered down the asphalt path, relishing the scent of fresh cut grass. Even before the attacks, I'd barely remembered what it was like, or even cared to let it register. I was usually on the lady, on a two-week run around the Colonies, or in some club on a spaceport. If I ever went planetside, I certainly didn't care to hang out in a park. Come to think of it, I don't think I really had the opportunity to just stroll since I got out of tech school.

What planet did the rendered sky come from? I wished then I'd taken an interest in astronomy back home. I would know. Then again, I could just pretend this was the night I always saw on Libron, or, rather, was oblivious to. I was never a person to stop and contemplate. I had moved with haste, from one goal to another. Ninth grade, varsity team, losing my virginity, all-prefecture, championships, my high school diploma, signing my letter of intent to Libron Tech-- always moving.

I thought of Mishka, then, the woman who represented the love of my college years, tall, lanky, but strangely graceful. I thought of the twinkle in her green eyes, the messy topknot of black hair. She was almost a nonoccurrence, now. I thought of her, and how I actually wanted children, a life, the whole "us against the world" paradigm. Then, we became strangers. Who can say why, but when Mishka told me, her cheeks stained with mascara-tinged tears, that she didn't love me anymore, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. She left school, finished up a few years later at Abydos U. on Picon. She married a nice guy, who was an engineer, had three kids, and became the occasional birthday card.

I went on, made B-team, played a bit, got my letter. We hammered Picon A&I, and won the conference title, made to the second round of the Intercolonial championships, before bowing out in double overtime. After that, nothing in me wanted to return. I knew, as we practiced during spring ball, penciled in as the starting center, I felt nothing for the game any longer. I didn't need it anymore. Everyone, and everything around me was tangenital, so I walked away. I had to eat, and there weren't any jobs left back home, so I ended up in tech school, then on the Lady. Still moving, never stopping to really contemplate anything. That would slow me down. Now, everyone was running with me, across the galaxy to that unknown 13th Colony, not looking back, and not daring to look too far forward. This was a world built for me.

The fake moon crept out from fake clouds, and shined down on the genetically engineered grass. All we needed here was some fake crickets chirping. I was about to turn around. This was no good. This place was nothing more than the memory of what lay behind, almost as vague as my life felt, up to this point. I could just join Caff and the gang, and celebrate on the one day we could seriously feel happy about something.

The path snaked around, bisected by a carved out stream, both sides linked by a simple wooden bridge. I saw her leaning against the railing. Her sea green evening gown shined, as if it's muted brilliance was the source of the moonlight above. I looked back, at the grand ballroom. Dressed like that, she must have come from there. Her blonde hair was pulled up, ornately, revealing diamond earrings. Her bare shoulders were hunched a little, as her head lolled to one side, seemingly contemplating the waters running underneath her. I found myself grinning. As I drew within twenty meters, or so, I recognized her. This was Diana Thalyka.

I never thought I would see her, see anyone, dressed so ornately again. She cradled a drink in her hands. I was close enough, that to say nothing would be rude, so I approach, rested a hand on the railing. She didn't look up. I couldn't think of anything especially witty to say, so I just did the courteous thing.

"Hello, Diana."

No response. Her fingers curled loosely around her glass, her mouth a small, sad line. I leaned against the railing, on my forearms, next to her.

"Diana...hi. You look like you're waiting for the party to come to you."

"The party is in there. What are you doing here," she asked. Her lips, colored a gentle shade of purple, barely moved.

She didn't leave much of an opening. I figured, then, if she had wanted company, she would have been in the main ballroom, with the President, the Commander, and all the other movers and shakers. Broken solitude wouldn't be welcome, coming from the guy who shared the front page of the first issue of the Fleet's first tabloid, "Scuttlebutt."

I decided not to try and say the right thing. It wasn't my job, unlike her. I wasn't trained for it. So I just decided to just talk.

"I know the party's waiting for me. No end to it you know. At least not for now. We kicked the Cylons in the teeth, Jasper Bertrand won uncontested, and Tom Zarek isn't one step from the big seat. I just wanted to see some actual grass, that's all."

She turned to me then. The moonlight against her skin, her defined cheekbones, made her look as if she had been lovingly carved from ivory. Her white eyeshadow sparkled like she had raked her fingers across the stars, then forgetfully rubbed her eyes. Meeting her gaze, though, I didn't see the fire, that match-strike spark behind the gray, as I did on Colonial One, when she ascended the stairs, back to her duties.

" Bertrand. He has an event of his own going, next door. Did you come from that," she asked.

I remembered Phelan, his promise of weapons, our own indoor practice range, and the deal for booze. I remembered seeing only cold hard numbers in his gaze, and how Bertrand clapped him on the back.

"Oh yeah. I sure did. I've been in nothing but cramped quarters, air ducts, engine rooms. I just needed the wide-open space. So what about you?"

She turned back to her reflection in the stream.

"The same."

I thought about walking away, at that point, wishing her a good night. Then I could slide my key into the door slot, and pretend the world was just peachy. But that was it--pretend. As cool as she was toward me, she was real.

"I figure this must be heaven, compared to your digs on Colonial One."

She looked up, past me, to the ballroom in the distance.

"Out here, maybe. In there...I suppose."

"You suppose? I know a party like this is its own kind of business, but I'd think you'd have a little more reason to smile. After all, your side scored a big victory in the Quorum."

"I suppose."

This woman had an eloquent answer for everything. Yet, now, she barely spoke. I wondered what was so jarring that she couldn't embrace the joy we were all supposed to feel. I somehow doubted she would be staging mystery crates and looking forward to a private arsenal coming her way. That is, unless she decided to start running a still on the President's boat.

I smiled. Somebody had to.

"Please, turn down all the bubbly happiness. I can only take so much."

Silence. I thought about the biggest news of the day: Gaius Baltar, the new Vice President. Over the wireless, she emphatically endorsed him, as did Bertrand, and, of course, Roslin. He was a genius, he was twitchy, a little weird, from what I saw and heard, over the wireless, not the kind of guy who had political aspirations. He was required reading in my Physics 101 class, freshman year. He even wrote one of my High School Science textbooks. Guys like this weren't administrators, really. This had to be at the core of it. I knew it was a part of my problems, if indirectly.

"I mean... hey," I said, shrugging. "Gaius Baltar isn't Tom Zarek, right? He's one of the greatest minds in history."

She turned to me again, eyes narrowing. She looked a little less numb. Oh yeah. That's what this was about.

"The greatest minds...yes."

"But...?"

She looked over her shoulder, then. Probably for press, maybe someone else willing to pay for photos of the rough-boy mechanic and the Secretary!

She opened her mouth, a glint in her eye returning, but then she placed her drink on the railing, and rearranged her scarf about her shoulders, nervously.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Never mind."

I wondered then how much she knew about Bertrand. Probably not that much, but she knew I was part of his army of mechanics, if not how we indirectly drew enough support to bend the ears of non-Libronese, to get their Council member's vote for Baltar.

"It does make one wonder though," I said. "I mean, the guy has no experience at all. I mean, what if something should happen to the President? He's spent most of his life in a lab, not at the Great Hall in Caprica City. At least Roslin has a feel for the system."

She leaned toward me, emphatically. That familiar glint pierced her melancholy a little.

"None of the new Quorum has a feel for the system. None of them were in politics, beforehand, at any level. There is no way around that, none. So he'll learn fast--they all will. Just like the rest of us did."

I nodded.

"Well, you probably would know better than I would. I've only watched him on TV, listened to him on the wireless, but he just doesn't strike me as someone that understands people. Now you, you understand people. You can actually, you know, connect with those you talk to. I just get the feeling he talks at you more than to you. Like he's..." I fished for the right word. She may not have been crazy about this, but it wasn't my place to insult the guy, given her position, and his new place on the food chain. "Like he's distracted."

"Nearly the entire fleet is distracted. What happened to us, to everyone and everything we ever knew? It takes a special kind not to be distracted. And that kind, they pay their own, separate price, as well. Nothing ever comes for free, in this world. Nothing, anymore."

Her voice faltered a little at the end, but in her mind, that railing she leaned against was her podium. Whatever happened today, with Baltar, with the Quorum, it cut against her grain. Somebody had lugged a big, dirty wheel down the hallway of her ideals.

"Nothing ever did, before. Why would that suddenly change now," I asked her. That was a constant I had learned early.

"Before, nothing ever came for free in life, perhaps. But before...before, on the Colonies...we were all something more, or something less. We were all whole. No one is whole, anymore. You're either too distracted, too scattered to be much of anything--or you are one thing only...too focused to be anything else. One way or another...we all pay the price."

Underneath her rouge, real color spread over her cheeks, and her jaw clenched. I frowned, leaning in myself.

"You think the price is too high? Even with everything that's at stake?"

"No. No, I don't think it's too high. And perhaps that's the most damning thing of all. Because it's never too high. Because you'll pay anything. Become anything. Do anything. Anything, for one more day, for our people-- anything, for one more day, for the human race. And because you would do it all again. No price is too high, any longer. And that's why none of us are whole, anymore. Because that price will kill you. Little by little. I look inside, and I see nothing. Nothing anymore, but this.

She held her badge, and pointed to the Colonial Seal displayed on it.

I would have held up something, too, but a glass jar full of hooch and semi-automatic pistol was all I would be able to show for it. I opened my mouth to try and muster some sense of comfort, to let her know that it couldn't be that bad, but she cut me off.

"And I don't mind. Because no price is too high, for my people. We are all dying, you know. All of us, in the service of the colonies. On Galactica, you die quickly, all at once, in a shower of fire. On Colonial One, we die slowly, piece by piece. Sometimes..." Her lower lip trembled for a moment, and she shook her head. "Sometimes I think they have the better deal."

I remembered my stay on Galactica, the pilots laying in their beds, doped up, some covered in burns, some missing limbs, or wearing large casts.

"You remember, I spent the night in Galactica's infirmary, a while back. I'm not so sure they do. You talk about dying slowly. I think some of those guys could tell you a thing or two."

Surprisingly, she was dumbstruck. She simply blinked once, lips slightly parted as her brow furrowed.

Her lips worked mutely for a breath, then she said: "In what way? I mean, yeah, I'm sure they're in bad shape. Hell, they're my people, and the defenders of the fleet. But...I don't see how that related, to dying slowly. They aren't dying, after all."

This time it was my turn to hang my mouth open. For all her talk of doing anything for "her people," she really didn't know much.

"Oh, yes they are. Not everybody we've seen die in combat goes up in one big ball of glorious fire, beating back the Cylons. Sometimes there's no helping someone, even though they're not dead in an instant."

"But..." she seemed confused. " "In what way? I mean, yeah, I'm sure they're in bad shape. Hell, they're my people, and the defenders of the fleet, and I...But...the last attacks were more than a week ago. Surely...they are recovering, not dying!"

I fought the urge to get angry. You didn't have to be in combat to die slowly. A couple times, people back home, in Zosimo died of injuries incurred in the mills--industrial accidents. Sometimes they would fight the losing battle for a week or two, maybe more, before succumbing. I only read about it in the papers, once or twice, growing up. My grandparents, though, they saw it all the time, before the Colonial government set and enforced safety standards.

"Who knows, Diana? They lost around a dozen pilots in a deck accident three weeks ago. I figured they were some of the ones lingering on, or maybe on the slow road to recovery. I don't know."

She bowed her head, in seeming reflex, for the downfallen I had mentioned.

"Slowly dying...indeed," she told me, looking up again. " As you said they could teach us a thing or two. Perhaps they can. But maybe we could all teach each other. There are different kinds of death. When their ordeal is over, it is over, their souls entrusted to the Gods. But I look at the people around me, or inside my own heart, and I can see their souls, my soul, slipping away. Little by little. "

Caff nodded emphatically, when Phelan told us about the guns, the rations, the real liquor we'd get. All we had to do was supply the home brew and let him dump a few crates in our cargo bay once in a while. Where was the harm in that? Jasper Bertrand told me that there was a future beyond the Lady of Libron II, if I wanted it badly enough. He introduced us the sharply dressed man, with the cold dark eyes, who armed us.

Diana paused for a half-breath and, since I had no response for her, she continued.

"Before long...your body lives, and your soul, your heart...everything that made you human is dead. The men on Galactica, their lives will end as lives should, quickly or at least wholly. Ours will end in an abomination, with the death of the soul, but not the body. Mere shells of ourselves, eventually, no better than the Cylons."

Her talk of abomination made me shiver a little. I forgot that she had been so idealistic, and seemed disillusioned, now about the cutthroat world of Colonial politics, because she had just entered it, before the attack. I wondered if she could so willingly go out in a blaze of glory.

"So," I asked her. She wasn't the only one who could fence a little. "If, say, those guys on the Mazingo had killed me…" I couldn't resist a little smirk. It was ridiculous, after all. "You're saying I'd have impressed you, with my grand death?"

Her eyes grew wide, now, and she frowned, severely.

"You? No, of course not! And "impressed" has NOTHING to do with it." her voice dropped, a little softer, a little sadder, as quickly as it had gained strength. "Envy does. And I wouldn't have envied you. Your situation is different, so different, and I pray it remains that way. But, if one of my colleagues had met their end, that way? Then much as I know it is wrong to think such...Yes. Yes, there would have been some small part of envy, along with the sorrow and the anger."

I didn't know what to say to that. I felt adrift, but I had yet to envy the dead. I doubt I ever would, hopefully. I sighed, wanting to give her a little hug, a gesture to show her that being dead wasn't all it was cracked up to be. That, of course, that would look like porn compared to our careless whisper.

"Prayer is good," I told her. Then I added, as an afterthought: "But thanks for letting know that you wouldn't remember me as just the guy who got you on the front page of "Scuttlebutt."

For a split second, I thought she may smile, but she shook her head, as her upper lip curled, in disdain. Thankfully, it wasn't in disdain of me.

"All news is the tabloids, these days. You hear the kind of stuff they've been saying, the last few days, covering the Quorum session?"

I nodded.

"Ridiculous. Like one bit tabloid-via-voice. The things they said about her. About Gray. About any of us. They've never made a hard choice in their lives. I believe in freedom of the press, and I always will. But on a purely moral, not legal, level."

I started to speak, but she was evidently back on her invisible podium.

"They don't have the right to judge us. They don't know what it's like. No one can judge us, except ourselves, our colleagues--and the people."

She was extremely emphatic about adding "the people." Can't forget the little guy. She went from mute introversion to pontification in minutes.

I raised an eyebrow. "I think we're all judgmental in a way."

She straightened, resettled her scarf about her shoulders.

"We're human. Hell maybe it's even broader than that--for that matter the damn Cylons are pretty judgmental themselves. But you had something specific on your mind, just now...you looked at me."

Her eyes were finally filled with the light I saw on Colonial One. She was sharp, but, for all that she believed in, she still seemed to think inside the carefully placed lines drawn around her, all of her life.

"Yeah, I think you take some things too personally." I leaned one arm against the railing, casually, in contrast to her newfound, straight-backed decorum. "I think you're terrified of damaging a political career that's, at this point, impossible to damage."

She shook her head, crossing her arms, but she let her weight shift to her back foot, indicating, to me, that she felt strongly about what I was saying, but not uncomfortable.

"No, not of damaging the career. Of damaging the Colonies. Of failing the people. And I don't think I'm any different than others, in their own ways, Galactica's pilots, they certainly dread failing, failing their squadmates, their superiors, us. Do you ever think about the horrors, of failing your colleagues? I'm sure your foreman thinks some days about failing his people."

I never quite thought about it that way. I envisioned Caff as a man who didn't think about failing us, but rather thinking about how he could keep us on track.

"Not quite," I said, chuckling a little. I wasn't thinking along the same lines she was. Considering her anger at me, the last time I'd seen her, I would have thought the connection was evident.

"Believe it or not," I continued. "I realized, On Colonial One, once the cameras started going off, that whispering in your ear was not a good idea. I can understand you not wanting the press giving you a little heat, but how is that damaging to the Colonies?"

She shook her head, emphatically.

"I could care less about that. That isn't what I meant."

"Oh? You seemed to care about it quite a bit when you clomped up the steps, with the disposition of an angry wasp…Miss Thalyka. And, to be honest, you have me looking over my own shoulder now, for those guys."

"Of course I cared about it," she blurted out.

Her eyes darted from side to side quickly, her awareness of looming information mongers kicked back into gear. She took a deep breath, pressing both palms together, and continued.

Who wouldn't be angry, at having been embarrassed--especially after they warned the person responsible not to say anything stupid, or do anything stupid? Yeah, I was pissed. But I was exonerated that moment when more interesting news came along."

She shifted uneasily on her feet, now. She was starting to wring her hands, a little.

" I was never really...it was a different kind of thing. I cared yeah. Like all people care, having been embarrassed. But I didn't care, in the same way that I care about certain..."

She turned away from me, picked her once forgotten glass, up from the wooden rail, and leaned against it again, looking as despondent as when I found her. She took an almost impolite, long swallow from her drink.

She murmured, staring back in the water: "About certain other things."

This time I was the one making extremely sure no one was in earshot, in all four directions. I leaned in next to her, our shoulders almost touching, and I whispered in her ear.

"You don't have any faith in Baltar, do you?"

She slowly shook her head, then made her own cursory survey of the park.

"No. I never did. I doubt I ever will," she whispered back.

I raised my voice, slightly, but kept the volume as low as I could. I wondered how much more her faith would diminish, if she knew about the players behind the scenes that helped her and Roslin get him there. The way I saw it, we were still better off, in a way.

"It was either him or Tom Zarek. You had to make a choice, we've all had to, to keep this thing running."

"She made the choice," Diana hissed." I made a similar one. But, the things I said, the things I did...I stood there, and endorsed a man I don't believe in. More than that, a man I think is practically a raving lunatic, a perverted one at that. Why did I do it? So a convicted terrorist wouldn't become the Vice President. But that doesn't make it right. That only makes it necessary."

Her jaw clenched, her expression carried a mix of anger and despair. I knew a thing or two about necessity, tonight. It seemed we were learning the hard way, together, and on our own.

"And doesn't make it right, Jay. This was the first time...the first time, for me. I know it won't be the last."

What could I say to that? I was just beginning to make the first of my hard choices, too. Then, she straightened, and grabbed me by the shoulders. Her glass teetered, fell with a faint splash into the stream.

"Look in my eyes," she said, through clenched teeth. Her voice wavered, her despondent eyes formed the beginnings of tears. "Remember what they look like. Because if we live that long, I fear in a few years...they will be as dead as a Cylon's. You get knocked down a thousand times, in my world. And you pull yourself up, a thousand times, in this new reality, because no one is waiting to replace you if you fall. But every time you get up, each time you rise again after falling...There is a little less of you. . ."

She trailed off, her grip tightening, and I could feel the pressure of her nails through my coat.

"The truly damning thing is, even knowing that...I would do it all again, and I will do it all again."

She trembled, but the wetness above her lashes didn't spill over. I gently took her hands in mine, and slid them off my shoulders, cradling them between us. She was trying to do the right thing, in all this, and making hard choices to see it through. I was compromising what I felt was right so we could get some guns and real booze.

"You did what you had to, so we could all survive. You're one person, at least, who can say that."

Her hands looked so small and frail, swallowed within mine. I didn't want to let them go, but I did, and they just fell to her sides. Diana shook her head.

"There are many people, who can say that. Me. Many of my colleagues. Everyone on Galactica. And you know what's odd, what's strangest and the most unfair thing of all? We do, did, will continue to do, what's necessary, so everyone can survive. Everyone but us. None of us will. You told me, about the men dying on Galactica. I told you, about the people dying in a different way, on Colonial One."

She bowed her head, picked at a nail. The way she stood, almost ashamed, as if she were apologizing to me.

" I know, i shouldn't think this. And I suppose I rarely do," she told me, nearly murmuring. I leaned in closer, to hear, as each word felt like an immense weight she lifted from her heart.

" But sometimes, once in awhile, I can't help but feel sad, about all of it, a bit angry. Don't we deserve a chance to live, live with those we give our lives and our souls to save?"

Her voice grew thick, and she sniffled.

"But it doesn't work that way, anymore. There is a price for everything. And in times like these...it-it is never too high."

I remembered the white handkerchief that I found, forgotten, in this coat. Caff told me to leave it in the inside breast pocket. I may need it. I pulled it out, handed it to her. She carefully dabbed her eyes, and thanked me.

She felt absolutely alone in this, as I did after we sealed the new bargain, for the future, with Bertrand. She had done the same, hours earlier, with Roslin and Baltar. I remembered something Mom told me, once: no one should have to carry the world alone.

"What you just said, there, Diana, I've been trying to tell myself that all night."

She looked up at me, clutching my handkerchief in one hand. Her lips spread into a melancholy smile, the kind someone has upon realizing too much was learned too fast.

"I wish I could tell you that I hope it gets easier. That I hope someday you can stopping having to try and tell yourself that, so hard. But I hope it NEVER gets easier, for either of us, for any of us. Because the day it gets easier--The day we don't feel the need to tell ourselves that anymore, or the day when telling ourselves that becomes a simple matter we quickly accept--is the day we truly begin to let it slip away."

She looked so hopeful, then, even in sadness. My mother told me something else, too once. Actually, I think she got it off a TV show, but it's stuck with me nevertheless: hope and two quarters will get you a cup of coffee.

I drew closer, looked around, rested my hands on her shoulders.

I whispered in her ear.

"Jasper Bertrand has his eye on the future... his future, and who can get him where he wants to be...everything else is secondary..."

I pulled back, looked her in the eye, close enough to take in the flowery scent of her perfume, see the blue flecks in her eyes.

"Everything."

"Everything as in what?"

"Everything," I repeated. "And everyone."

She opened her mouth again, but, we heard footsteps up the path. I turned to see Councilman Bertrand sauntering, hands in pockets, with two men, dressed as finely as he was. They appeared to be political aides.

"Krenzik!" His face lit up upon saying my name. He peered around me, and saw Diana, who had instantly managed to rebuild her walls of protocol. "Miss Thalyka, it's a pleasure to see you again," he told her, nodding cordially.

I could feel my face growing warm, and I resisted the urge to fidget. In my gut, I almost felt like a kid caught making out in the band room.

"Councilman," she said, masterfully, giving the image of a sincere, polite smile as she nodded in return. I could tell, though. I thought back to what she said about dead Cylon eyes.

Bertrand introduced us to the two gentlemen with him.

"These are my new aides, Jeffrey Zenar, and Amar Deltron. They'll be assisting me in my work within the fleet, helping the President implement the new economy."

I'm sure they were going to be most helpful, just as Phelan was, so far. They looked around 40, hardfaced, civilized in a rough sort of way. Both didn't carry themselves as if they wore such finery much, if ever.

"Diana Thalyka," she said, shaking both men's hands in turn, before adjusting her scarf about her shoulders. "If you'll excuse me, I really must be getting back."

She turned to me then, her expression softening, letting a little of her frustration and sadness bleed through. I was almost ashamed to look her in the eye, then, but I forced myself. After all, it was show time for me, as well.

"It was good seeing you again, Mr. Krenzik. I hope your good works continue, within the fleet."

I forced my mouth to grin. "Thank you, Miss Thalyka. Have a good evening."

She wished Bertrand and his aides a good night, and, with a graceful turn, was gone, down the path. I lingered on her a moment, as Bertrand clapped his arm around my shoulders, and she looked back, for just a moment, never breaking stride.

"Okay, gentlemen," this is Jay Krenzik, he's a mechanic on that freighter that Phelan told you about. The whole crew seems to be on the same page, but he's the one I want you to contact, if they need any sensitive information. He's been doing a hell of a job for us, and he's on board." He turned to me, then.

"Okay, Krenzik, these two gentlemen are the ones you'll be contacting about anything having to do with shipments from the Prometheus to the Lady of Libron II, from now on."

I nodded, shaking hands with each. Zenar was thick, with a graying goatee. Behind his amiable expression, was a mind working intensively, reading me, taking in everything around him. Deltron had almond-shaped eyes and a darker complexion. He nodded, his smile as cool as his grip.

Bertrand walked next to me, back toward the main hall, the party waiting for us, down the escalators, as Zenar and Deltron strolled behind us.

"I wondered where you were, but I saw you getting some face time with Madame Secretary there. Good move! So what do you think of her?"

I walked with my hands in my pockets, and shrugged.

"I don't know. She seems to really believe in what she's doing, I guess."

Bertrand nodded. "Yeah, she does. I'll give her that. She's fiercely idealistic, to a fault. But, if you've listened to her talk, you probably know that, already."

I smiled, in spite of myself. Yes, I'd heard her talk. And I wanted to listen, every time.

"Once she gets on her soapbox, she can go on and on," Bertrand continued. "Nice girl though. Has a really bright future if she plays her cards right."

I looked him in the eye.

"Don't we all, Councilman?"

He chuckled softly. It sounded fake. As fake as the moon and stars projected above us.

I came from a long line of Colonial officers. A long line of Viper pilots, on my mother's side. The day I told her, for all certainty, the path I planned to follow, she was silent, for a long while. I remember feeling so worried she would be angry with me, so disappointed in me...But finally, after those long moments of thought, she turned back to me and spoke: "You plan to serve the Colonies, Diana...even if in a different way than I do. As long as you do that...I will always be proud of you."

Always? Not likely. Not anymore, I don't think, if she were still alive.

I stood there. I stood there and spoke those words. Words of support for a man I feel is worse than worthless.

Lies, with a smile on my face. Lies I fear could all come back to haunt us.

...But what choice did I have? Some people say "better the devil you know". I say, in Baltar's case, it was more like..."better the likely devil than the certain devil". He's not Zarek. Which is the ONLY thing that can be said, truthfully, in his favor...and not among the falsities I spoke in his favor less than 48 hours before.

What a maniac. A pervert. A bozo. An incompetent. A twitch. And a snake.

And now...the Vice President of the Twelve Colonies. By my hand, among others. My VOICE among others. My words of support.

"Diana...Hi. You look like you're waiting for the party to come to you."

I suppose, normally, I would have been startled, by the presence suddenly beside me. But at the moment, all I can do is look over out of the corner of my eye, and give a sullen reply.

"The party is in there. What are you doing here."?

Probably came from Bertrand's bash next door. That man was bad news. Then again, it seemed half the Quorum was bad news. Which, I have to admit, would pretty much put it on a par with the OLD Quorum...

"I know the party's waiting for me. No end to it you know. At least not for now. We kicked the Cylons in the teeth, Jasper Bertrand won uncontested, and Tom Zarek isn't one step from the big seat. I just wanted to see some actual grass, that's all."

" Bertrand. He has an event of his own going, next door. Did you come from that?"

"Oh yeah. I sure did. I've been in nothing but cramped quarters, air ducts, engine rooms. I just needed the wide-open space. So what about you?"

Bertrand's man. He sure seemed to be collecting a lot of them, or rather, had collected a lot of them. The new Quorum seemed to think it was their job to quickly make up for the lack of a normal political base by taking the term "pork barrel" to the extreme. Nearly every Quorum member had a fiercely devoted, heavily rewarded following...carefully cultivated and maintained. But I could tell him what had really bought me out here...not if he was Bertrand's man now.

"The same."

"I figure this must be heaven, compared to your digs on Colonial One."

The stream, the fake moonlight sky, the grass...echoes of the Colonies. I wish I could say they made me happy. But truth be told, in a way, they only made me sad. A fake, sad little piece, of what we had lost forever.

...fitting, I suppose. Like the pieces of me that had slipped away here, these last few days.

"Out here, maybe. In there...I suppose."

"You suppose? I know a party like this is its own kind of business, but I'd think you'd have a little more reason to smile. After all, your side scored a big victory in the Quorum."

A victory. Right. If this is victory...what is the purpose of even bothering to fight against defeat? Because this isn't victory. It isn't even the absence of defeat. It's choosing the lesser of two defeats, the lesser of tow evils...and something feels so wrong about fighting so hard in order to still lose, when it comes right down to it.

"I suppose."

"Please, turn down all the bubbly happiness. I can only take so much."

It must be national "act like a prick" night. How dare he come here, and speak of happiness? Of victories? Of...

...Slowly, in the silence, I calm myself by reminding myself that he most likely doesn't understand.

"I mean... hey. Gaius Baltar isn't Tom Zarek, right? He's one of the greatest minds in history."

If you could nymphomania and talking to one's self as signs of genius then yeah, maybe he was.

"The greatest minds...yes."

"But...?"

I take a quick look around for the press, only daring to speak when I am certain they are nowhere near. I come so close, to saying it. But at the last moment, I pull away: Bertrand's man. I work for the President. He might as well work for the Quorum. Share nothing, without permission. And certainly nothing EVER like this.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Never mind."

"It does make one wonder though," I said. "I mean, the guy has no experience at all. I mean, what if something should happen to the President? He's spent most of his life in a lab, not at the Great Hall in Caprica City. At least Roslin has a feel for the system."

Feel for the system. Oh hell, none of us had a "feel" for the system, even though we WERE the system now. Those of us on C1 were just starting to gain it. Until then, God forbid they ever know how some days, we all felt like we were baby birds, trying to learn how to fly by jumping out of tress, frantically flapping our wings, and hitting the ground...doing it over and over again until finally we started to fly. Until finally we started to gain understanding. I leaned towards him, trying to make my point that much more clear.

"None of the new Quorum has a feel for the system. None of them were in politics, beforehand, at any level. There is no way around that, none. So he'll learn fast--they all will. Just like the rest of us did."

Translation: Baltar had better damn well learn, and learn fast, blithering idiot or not.

"Well, you probably would know better than I would. I've only watched him on TV, listened to him on the wireless, but he just doesn't strike me as someone that understands people. Now you, you understand people. You can actually, you know, connect with those you talk to. I just get the feeling he talks at you more than to you. Like he's...Like he's distracted."

Distracted. Yes, very. And very dangerous, in his new position. Very frightening to contemplate. And yet at the same time...very inducing of envy. There were two types of people in the world now: Those like most of the civilian passengers, or Baltar...Too distracted to focus on anything...Or those so focused on one thing (for better or for worse) like Roslin, and Bertrand, and Billy, and myself...that everything else slipped away, left by the wayside in pursuit of the goal, in pursuit of the mission, in pursuit of the dream, the need, the things that seemed to fill our every waking thought and eclipse all other sights from our vision.

"Nearly the entire fleet is distracted. What happened to us, to everyone and everything we ever knew? It takes a special kind not to be distracted. And that kind, they pay their own, separate price, as well. Nothing ever comes for free, in this world. Nothing, anymore."

"Nothing ever did, before. Why would that suddenly change now."

"Before, nothing ever came for free in life, perhaps. But before...before, on the Colonies...we were all something more, or something less. We were all whole. No one is whole, anymore. You're either too distracted, too scattered to be much of anything--or you are one thing only...too focused to be anything else. One way or another...we all pay the price."

"You think the price is too high? Even with everything that's at stake?"

"No. No, I don't think it's too high. And perhaps that's the most damning thing of all. Because it's never too high. Because you'll pay anything. Become anything. Do anything. Anything, for one more day, for our people-- anything, for one more day, for the human race. And because you would do it all again. No price is too high, any longer. And that's why none of us are whole, anymore. Because that price will kill you. Little by little. I look inside, and I see nothing. Nothing anymore, but this.

I held up my badge in my hand ,the new one printed for me shortly before this event, blank other than the Colonial Seal, and pointed to the Seal.

...and even more frightening to me, some days...I don't mind. I made a promise, to the Colonies, to the Articles, to the people, the day I took my oath, mere hours after Roslin took her own. And I made a pact, I made a decision, a change, that day I broke my old ID. To follow that oath, that duty, with everything I had...no matter if giving everything I had left me with little else left, by the end.

"And I don't mind. Because no price is too high, for my people. We are all dying, you know. All of us, in the service of the colonies. On Galactica, you die quickly, all at once, in a shower of fire. On Colonial One, we die slowly, piece by piece. Sometimes..." Her lower lip trembled for a moment, and she shook her head. "Sometimes I think they have the better deal."

Because I could see it happening to all of us, just as I could feel it happening to myself. Everyone from the lowest aide to the President herself. Those balls of fire in the sky...my mother died that way, most likely, in her cockpit. Those explosions aboard Galactica...my father died in a similar way, most likely, on Caprica. And I pray their souls are with the Gods now. But I don't know if my soul will ever join them. Because I doubt I'm going to have one left, by the end of this. Humans are meant to have the body die, and the soul released...Not the soul torn away in pieces, little by little. They die, if by unnatural causes, quickly. Instantly, or within hours or days at most, if from an injury...and a few years at most if from an illness. Not slowly, over decades, piece by tiny piece of their soul. But if we live...what I did tonight...what I will have to do again..what all the others do, have done, will do again...Our obituaries will not be nearly so kind. Laura Roslin. Wallace Gray. Billy Keikeya. Diana Thalyka. Cause of Death: Politics.

...Type of Death: The living dead. Someday, in the unlikely event we live that long, then one day, without ever even realizing it, I will wake up...each of us will wake up...and vacant, hollow eyes will stare back at us...vacant as out hearts will be, and empty as our souls will be. Cylon eyes, and Cylon hearts. We will have become like the enemy, to save our people from them.

"You remember, I spent the night in Galactica's infirmary, a while back. I'm not so sure they do. You talk about dying slowly. I think some of those guys could tell you a thing or two."

Now THAT made no sense. My mother was a soldier, a pilot. She never talked about anyone taking more than a day or two to die, at most. Usually, pretty damn near instant, within hours at most, and for pilots, a split second of fire. I didn't get it: We hadn't been in any battles for more than a week. Surely, whoever was in Galactica's infirmary was fighting to live. Had a chance of recovery, a good one, even.

"In what way? I mean, yeah, I'm sure they're in bad shape. Hell, they're my people, and the defenders of the fleet. But...I don't see how that related, to dying slowly. They aren't dying, after all."

"Oh, yes they are. Not everybody we've seen die in combat goes up in one big ball of glorious fire, beating back the Cylons. Sometimes there's no helping someone, even though they're not dead in an instant."

He looked dumbstruck, and angry, and I was even more confused: Of course he was correct. But...that took a few hours. A day or two at most. Surely, never weeks!

"But...In what way? I mean, yeah, I'm sure they're in bad shape. Hell, they're my people, and the defenders of the fleet, and I...But...the last attacks were more than a week ago. Surely...they are recovering, not dying!"

Now, he looked even angrier, and I fought the urge to turn away. How dare he look at me like that. He couldn't even begin to KNOW what I had given these past few weeks, these past few months nearly, for the Colonies, and their people. How dare he look at me as if I didn't feel, as if I didn't care.

"Who knows, Diana? They lost around a dozen pilots in a deck accident three weeks ago. I figured they were some of the ones lingering on, or maybe on the slow road to recovery. I don't know."

There was something in his voice that made me believe he had seen it happen before, or knew from credible sources that it could. So maybe it could. My medical knowledge was next to nil. All I knew was what my mother told me, or deaths in battle. My former childhood home, Caprica City, wasn't exactly a hotbed for traumatic injuries, and certainly not in the area I lived in. I couldn't help but bow my head, and send off a silent prayer, even though I wasn't extremely religious...Just in case he was right. Just in case they truly were dying, over there. But at the same time...I still envied them, in a way, wrong as it might seem to me. I looking over at Krenzik...I knew I had still failed to make him understand. So I spoke again, trying to clarify things.

"Slowly dying...indeed. As you said they could teach us a thing or two. Perhaps they can. But maybe we could all teach each other. There are different kinds of death. When their ordeal is over, it is over, their souls entrusted to the Gods. But I look at the people around me, or inside my own heart, and I can see their souls, my soul, slipping away. Little by little. Before long...your body lives, and your soul, your heart...everything that made you human is dead. The men on Galactica, their lives will end as lives should, quickly or at least wholly. Ours will end in an abomination, with the death of the soul, but not the body. Mere shells of ourselves, eventually, no better than the Cylons."

I could see him shiver slightly for a moment, though whether from my words or from the simulated breeze I didn't know.

"So. If, say, those guys on the Mazingo had killed me…" I couldn't resist a little smirk. It was ridiculous, after all. "You're saying I'd have impressed you, with my grand death?"

I was wrong, to even suspect I might have reached him with my last words. He STILL didn't understand.

"You? No, of course not! And "impressed" has NOTHING to do with it." her voice dropped, a little softer, a little sadder, as quickly as it had gained strength. "Envy does. And I wouldn't have envied you. Your situation is different, so different, and I pray it remains that way. But, if one of my colleagues had met their end, that way? Then much as I know it is wrong to think such...Yes. Yes, there would have been some small part of envy, along with the sorrow and the anger."

"Prayer is good. But thanks for letting know that you wouldn't remember me as just the guy who got you on the front page of "Scuttlebutt."

I had nearly forgotten that incident, until he mentioned it now...Things move so fast, on Colonial One. And in the press. That story was history and forgotten in less than 48 hours, as I had predicted at the time. But now that he had mentioned it again, I felt my lip curl involuntarily into a sneer...It seemed every day, the press got worse and worse...They had always been something to be cautious of, in my line of work. But now...They were little more than a rabid throng of small, yipping animals, with little to contribute as of yet besides headaches.

"All news is the tabloids, these days. You hear the kind of stuff they've been saying, the last few days, covering the Quorum session?"

He nodded, and I continued.

"Ridiculous. Like one big tabloid-via-voice. The things they said about her. About Gray. About any of us. They've never made a hard choice in their lives. I believe in freedom of the press, and I always will. But on a purely moral, not legal, level. They don't have the right to judge us. They don't know what it's like. No one can judge us, except ourselves, our colleagues--and the people."

"I think we're all judgmental in a way."

"We're human. Hell maybe it's even broader than that--for that matter the damn Cylons are pretty judgmental themselves. But you had something specific on your mind, just now...you looked at me."

"Yeah, I think you take some things too personally." I leaned one arm against the railing, casually, in contrast to her newfound, straight-backed decorum. "I think you're terrified of damaging a political career that's, at this point, impossible to damage."

Did he know NOTHING about me, even after we have spoken three times now? First of all, it was, in fact, still eminently possible to damage a political career, nearly as easily as one could back on the Colonies...even if the consequences might be less than before. But even more...That was not even in my mind. The things I feared damaging were so much more important to me than any title, or any prestige, ever could be. Once again, I found myself trying to explain to him. He was a conundrum...Of the times I had interacted with him, he had often and in many ways been incredibly perceptive. And yet in other ways, like this and so many other times tonight...so clueless and unknowing.

"No, not of damaging the career. Of damaging the Colonies. Of failing the people. And I don't think I'm any different than others, in their own ways, Galactica's pilots, they certainly dread failing, failing their squad mates, their superiors, us. Do you ever think about the horrors, of failing your colleagues? I'm sure your foreman thinks some days about failing his people."

He had an expression of slight thought and surprise on his face, then, as if he had never thought of it that way before. And maybe, I thought, wanting to kick myself, he hadn't. He hadn't been in a leadership position, before the Colonies were destroyed, like his foreman. And he hadn't been moved into one afterwards either, like Billy and I. There were still some things that he wouldn't think of. Things he wouldn't understand.

"Not quite. Believe it or not," I continued. "I realized, On Colonial One, once the cameras started going off, that whispering in your ear was not a good idea. I can understand you not wanting the press giving you a little heat, but how is that damaging to the Colonies?"

Now I was even more confused. This had nothing to do, near as could tell, with our current subject of discussion.

"I could care less about that. That isn't what I meant."

"Oh? You seemed to care about it quite a bit when you clomped up the steps, with the disposition of an angry wasp…Miss Thalyka. And, to be honest, you have me looking over my own shoulder now, for those guys."

Disposition of an angry wasp, indeed! That had NOTHING to do with failing the Colonies, and I couldn't see how he could think it did. He was confused caring about something with worrying about damaging the Colonies.

"Of course I cared about it! Who wouldn't be angry, at having been embarrassed--especially after they warned the person responsible not to say anything stupid, or do anything stupid? Yeah, I was pissed. But I was exonerated that moment when more interesting news came along."

His expression told me he still didn't fully understand, so I tried again, in even more detail, though I found words nearly failing me, and tears threatening to choke me, as much as I tried to fight it.

" I was never really...it was a different kind of thing. I cared yeah. Like all people care, having been embarrassed. But I didn't care, in the same way that I care about certain..."

My voice caught in my throat, and I turned away from him and took a swig from my drink as long and hard as those I had seen the Galactica XO, Colonel Tigh, downing a half-hour before back in the ballroom.

"...About certain other things."

He leaned in close, as close as he had been on Colonial One, though I noticed that this time he at least had the sense to scan for reporters first.

"You don't have any faith in Baltar, do you?"

I scan for reporters myself, then, even more carefully than he did, and even more carefully than I did before. And in the back of my mind screams the warning, again: He's Bertrand's man.

...But I'm not so sure he is. At least not in that way and to that degree. Because he doesn't seem to have the instincts and acumen to be Bertrand's man in that way. And even beyond that...there is something to him now, something sad, and confused...lost and ashamed...We were both the damned and the used, tonight, perhaps. So I take a deep breath, and, against my better judgment and all the instincts that cry out against it, reply honestly to his question.

"No. I never did. I doubt I ever will," I whispered back.

"It was either him or Tom Zarek. You had to make a choice, we've all had to, to keep this thing running."

"She made the choice. I made a similar one. But, the things I said, the things I did...I stood there, and endorsed a man I don't believe in. More than that, a man I think is practically a raving lunatic, a perverted one at that. Why did I do it? So a convicted terrorist wouldn't become the Vice President. But that doesn't make it right. That only makes it necessary."

Like so many other things, these days. So many other times. And so many other times to come.

Suddenly, I wanted desperately to make him understand. Because I want to know that someone, somewhere, will remember what I was...even after I have long since faded to nothing more than a shell of what once was. I reached forward, on pure impulse, and grabbed his shoulders.

I can hear a splash into the stream, but I don't stop to wonder what it is...It barely even registers in my mind, frankly.

"Look in my eyes. Remember what they look like. Because if we live that long, I fear in a few years...they will be as dead as a Cylon's. You get knocked down a thousand times, in my world. And you pull yourself up, a thousand times, in this new reality, because no one is waiting to replace you if you fall. But every time you get up, each time you rise again after falling...There is a little less of you. . ."

I pause for a few moments, trying to pull myself together.

"The truly damning thing is, even knowing that...I would do it all again, and I will do it all again."

He reached out his hands to take mine, and in his eyes..I can see that perhaps, he finally understands, somewhat...

"You did what you had to, so we could all survive. You're one person, at least, who can say that."

So we all can survive. No. He is wrong in that. Not so we all can survive. So everyone else can survive.

"There are many people, who can say that. Me. Many of my colleagues. Everyone on Galactica. And you know what's odd, what's strangest and the most unfair thing of all? We do, did, will continue to do, what's necessary, so everyone can survive. Everyone but us. None of us will. You told me, about the men dying on Galactica. I told you, about the people dying in a different way, on Colonial One. I know, I shouldn't think this. And I suppose I rarely do. But sometimes, once in awhile, I can't help but feel sad, about all of it, a bit angry. Don't we deserve a chance to live, live with those we give our lives and our souls to save?"

So rarely I thought such things...So much rarer than I should have, probably. And less every day, as the days went by. Soon, I might think it hardly ever.

"But it doesn't work that way, anymore. There is a price for everything. And in times like these...it is never too high."

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, just as I fear the tears stinging the corner of my eyes might finally run down my face.

"What you just said, there, Diana, I've been trying to tell myself that all night."

So. I was right, before. He WAS similar, tonight...Lost and ashamed, doubting and unclean, from whatever his actions had been. Probably not much. Bertrand ran a booze ring. Everyone and their brother knew that. But booze wasn't illegal, and neither was distributing it, as long as your trades were fair and not coerced. Chances were...he just felt, like me, dirtied by the current state of politics, and all it entailed. Maybe, like my views towards Baltar, he didn't support Bertrand, really, for the Quorum rep, but went along with it for the work.

"I wish I could tell you that I hope it gets easier. That I hope someday you can stopping having to try and tell yourself that, so hard. But I hope it NEVER gets easier, for either of us, for any of us. Because the day it gets easier--The day we don't feel the need to tell ourselves that anymore, or the day when telling ourselves that becomes a simple matter we quickly accept--is the day we truly begin to let it slip away."

Suddenly, he got an expression on his face like the one that I suspect I had had a few moments earlier, when I grabbed him by the shoulders...The forceful, desperate expression of one about to do something rash, something unexpected, something important yet out of the blue, even to themselves.

He suddenly reached HIS hands forward to grip MY shoulders, then leaned in close to whisper in my ear.

"Jasper Bertrand has his eye on the future... his future, and who can get him where he wants to be...everything else is secondary...Everything."

Everything? As in other Quorum members careers? Other ships than his own? Other people?

"Everything as in what?"

"Everything," I repeated. "And everyone."

THAT sounded bad. Like the kind of thing the President needs to know about. But just as opened my mouth to ask him to say more, I heard footsteps coming towards us, along the path. We turned, and saw none other than the current object of our conversation. Inside me, I cursed his timing, multiple times.

"Krenzik! Miss Thalyka, it's a pleasure to see you again."

What an idiot. And what a rat. It had been maybe twenty minutes since he had last seen me. Half an hour at the most.

"Councilman."

"These are my new aides, Jeffrey Zenar, and Amar Deltron. They'll be assisting me in my work within the fleet, helping the President implement the new economy."

Wonderful. They looked more like thugs than aides. Where was he FINDING these guys? I suppressed a sigh, and reached out the obligatory hand to shake each of theirs.

"Diana Thalyka. If you'll excuse me, I really must be getting back."

Before I left, I looked over at Krenzik one more time, and followed his ever-shifting eyes with my own until I forced him to look into them. He might not understand now, the things I had said and felt tonight, But it seemed he would understand soon enough...and all I could do, suddenly...was wish that he wouldn't. That he never would. And, looking around at Bertrand and his aides surrounding him, know that he would anyways, all too soon.

"It was good seeing you again, Mr. Krenzik. I hope your good works continue, within the fleet."

"Thank you, Miss Thalyka. Have a good evening."

I turned then, and walked back down the path. Back towards the ballroom, and the 'party' that wasn't really a party for me, or almost any attending it. Back towards the new Quorum, and the new Vice President. Back towards Billy, and the President, and Gray, and all my other colleagues. Back towards Adama, and Tigh, and the rest of the senior officers of Galactica. Back towards the choices we made, the choices we make, that bind us all together, in the same two sinking ships...So that others might live.

I let the escalator roll me down to the bottom, leaving Bertrand to his deals, his grand visions of our destiny. I slid my keycard into the lock slot in front of me. This used to be a private club. Evidently, it still was.

Inside, canned beauty adorned the black leather chairs, and couches. They wore slinky little dresses, of all colors and cuts. All the guys were on the arm of most of them. Caff sat on the love seat with a young, tan-skinned girl with almond eyes. She sat in the crook of his arm, laughing, smiling, enjoying every word that came out of his mouth, puffing on his cigar, and laughing demurely as he chuckled. All the other guys had women on an arm. Marty blushed a little, but maintaining his cool, as one curvy redhead whispered in his ear, running fingers through his hair. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Toby, being hung on by a platinum blonde, in a tight pink tube dress, that made it abundantly clear that she wasn't wearing a bra.

"Hey man," he said, as whoever she was nuzzled his neck. "We thought you'd never get here. There's still some fine-ass women in here. Head back to the bar, man. It's like a stream of babes in here!"

I never thought I'd actually want to just be alone, after not even thinking about getting laid, since the bombs dropped, since we ran screaming, beyond the Red Line. I thought about Phelan, and Diana clutching my shoulders, her drink toppling into the stream.

I scanned the room, the scents of smoke and cheap, flowery perfume, mingled in the air. Toward the back, at the bar, a few women sat, legs crossed, scanning the room. Their eyes fell on me. I passed them over, walking by, smiling cordially, but fixing my gaze on a girl at the end.

Her hair was dark, straight, chestnut brown. The dim, soft lights didn't spill over her skin, and make her look as if she was lovingly carved from ivory. Her eye shadow didn't look like she raked her fingers across the stars, then absent-mindedly rubbed her eyes. She looked up, about to light a cigarette, and smiled, revealing teeth that were even, perfectly spaced, and immaculately white. Caps. Her true eye color was hidden behind vivid blue contact lenses. Full, round breasts, were cradled in the tight halter top she wore, above a black miniskirt, and shiny patent leather knee-high boots, with chunky heels. At first, I thought about walking out, getting a bottle, and just drinking until I passed out in my suite. I found my hand reach into my pants pocket, produce my lighter, and hold the flame up for her, as she lit up.

"My name's Kitty," she said, as she offered me a cigarette, which I took. I sat on the stool next to her, and grinned. Really, any woman in here would come back with me, but I wanted to talk for a little while. I wanted to remember what it was like, before all this.

"Jay. I'm a mechanic," I told her.

This was the best place to come, to remember. Cloud Nine, itself was simply a memory, a vivid recollection, in steel, plastic, and fiberoptics. This room, Kitty, with her too-blue eyes, lacquered nails, and almost believable smile, were memories, too. Just like all recollections, things were almost, but not quite the way they really were, viewed through the filters all people recall their worlds through. The moonlight didn't spill across the ground the way it did here, and grass was never that perfectly green. Women like Kitty, their eyes were never exactly that perfectly blue, and teeth weren't that ideally straight and chiseled out to perfection. But it was okay. I just wanted to remember.

She slid her long fingers around my bicep, gently squeezed. Her lacquered red nails gleamed against my black coat.

"Ohhhh," she cooed, burgundy-colored lips forming a sensuous little circle. "I can tell. You definitely work for a living."

I smiled, brushing some of her straight, silky hair back, letting my finger glide along the curve of her ear.

"Don't we all, anymore?"

She laughed, softly, perfectly, professionally. I could even see the smile rendered in her eyes.

"Yeah," she said, with a gentle nod, leaning in closer. "We do at that."

When I made a joke, she laughed. Her eyes brightened and grew wide at just the right times when I said something in an important way.

I leaned in, my cheek brushing against hers. "Come back with me, Kitty."

It was that easy. Ridiculous. It was even absurd to converse at all. That was okay, though. This wasn't real. I was just remembering. Our memories always made the past seem easier than it was, more beautiful than what the truth could ever be.

That was what we were--45,000-plus fading memories, hurtling through space.


End file.
